


A Very Private Hell

by romanticalgirl



Category: Bandom, The Academy Is...
Genre: F/M, Other, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-21
Updated: 2011-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:22:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Right in all the wrong ways</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Very Private Hell

  
She knows how wrong this is. She’s been telling herself _exactly_ how fucked up it is since the thought popped unbidden into her head. She’s not even sure if there’s a classification for the degree of hell she’s going to end up in for even thinking about this, much less actually contemplating acting on it. It’s a violation of trust on every level.

That doesn’t stop her, of course. Once the idea takes hold, she can’t shake it, so she makes sure that Bill and Christine know she’s more than happy to let them have a night out alone, she’ll watch the house and Genevieve. They jump at the chance, just like she knew they would, since between Bill’s tours and having an inquisitive and smart kid, they don’t have a lot of alone time.

She even orchestrates the rest of it. Offering to photograph the three of them, an official family portrait that will end up in everyone’s Christmas or Hanukkah gift and talking about outfits and making sure that, when they sit down to pose, William’s wearing the old white button-down shirt that’s soft enough from use and washing that it feels like a second skin. She smoothes the fabric for one shot, trailing her hand over Bill’s forearm, and she has to close her eyes for a minute before she can frame the shot.

That was hours ago, and now they’re off to some show and a hotel for the night. Genevieve’s finally in bed, tucked in with seventeen stuffed animals, an inadequate lullaby – ‘Aun’ Cour’ney. You don’ sing like daaaddy. Daddy sings boootiful.’ – and four bedtime stories. She was exhausted, only the infamous Beckett stubbornness keeping her struggling to stay awake until she had everything she wanted, but now she’s down for the count and, for good or bad, Courtney’s on her own.

On her own.

In the doorway of Bill and Christine’s bedroom.

“You’re a horrible person, Courtney Beckett. I hope you know that about yourself.” She whispers the words, but they don’t change the track in her mind. Even while playing with Genevieve earlier, she’d had this at the back of her thoughts, knowing that she was going to go through with it. Knowing she _had_ to somehow. Knowing not doing it would be worse for her than the actual act.

She closes the door most of the way, just to be safe, and walks into the room. It’s mostly tidy, though she can easily tell Bill’s side of the bed from Christine’s. Coins scattered across the top of his dresser and ubiquitous notebook, clothes piled beside the hamper instead of in it. She swallows hard and walks over to the dirty clothes, scraping her teeth across her upper lip and then her lower one, biting hard enough to sting.

“Now or never.”

She grabs the hem of her t-shirt and tugs it up over her head. She lays it on the end of the bed and then unbuttons her jeans. She freezes there for a second, hearing Bill’s voice in her head. He was always big on Roman history, and every big decision was met with a proclamation of crossing their Rubicon. He hasn’t gotten less pompous. In her head or in real life.

Instead of taking off her jeans, she takes off her bra and lays it on top of her t-shirt. She’s not sure why that’s less of an indictment in her head, but it is. She grabs the white button down from earlier from the dirty clothes and lifts it, inhaling. The subtle hints of Christine and Genevieve linger on the fabric, but neither of them have a chance of overpowering the pure scent of William. She buries her face in it and breathes it in then glances at the door quickly before pulling it on.

Her nipples harden as the fabric touches them, and she sucks in a hard breath. She closes her eyes and smoothes the shirt over her breasts and then buttons it, fingers shaking slightly. A quick glance at the mirror over Christine’s dresser makes things worse, her glasses and her hair and Bill’s shirt making her _look_ like her brother. “Fuck. Fuck.” She didn’t expect it to hit her so hard, to feel quite this way. Looking at herself, looking at _William_ in her own reflection.

She sheds her jeans because they’re too tight, too hot and she knows she crossed her own Rubicon ages ago, this is just getting to the shore on the other side. Her panties come off next, and the pile of her clothes is as good as gone in her mind as she digs around the hamper again, coming up with a pair of Bill’s boxer-briefs.

She tugs them on before she can think about it, shifting the fabric until it fits right. It’s strange feeling, too much fabric bunched at the front and she runs her hand over it, eyes closed again. She’s seen Bill naked since she’s toured with them, and modesty is pretty much the first thing after booze to disappear on the tour bus. That was different, because there he had to be just one of the guys, another subject to photograph, human flesh to make into art. She’s seen him other times too, and that’s what she has in her head right now. Those stolen moments when they both still lived at home and they’d surprise each other, or when she came over to the apartment he shared with Mike. The day she’d come home early from school and seen him in the back yard, watched him from behind the sliding glass door.

She lays down on the bed, fitting into the curve of the mussed sheets. The smell of him hits her again, and she just breathes for a moment, trailing the tips of her fingers up and down the front of the shirt, her stomach tight, her nipples hard. Her breathing is unsteady, making her chest rise and fall erratically, making every touch a kind of surprise. She forces a deeper breath, unsteady as it is, in and out and then moves her hands deliberately, rubbing the shirt against her breasts and stomach, inching them down to the hem.

Turning her head, she inhales the strong scent from the pillow and slips two fingers under the waistband of the boxer-briefs. She’s anxious, has been, and she’s wet. She turns her hand and grabs the fabric, pulling the briefs up tight, rubbing material against her clit. She wants more, but not yet. Feeling her own hand, her own touch, is where this is going, but like this she can imagine, pretend. _Want_.

It’s quickly not enough, so she slides her other hand down, pressing against the fabric, her palm curved over the material where William’s dick would be, has been, and rubs her clit. Feeling the fabric against her hand feels wrong, but it also feels right, closer. She can smell Bill, imagine him. His fingers. His cock. Her hand rubbing him, stroking him. Her breath hitches again and she works a hand beneath the waistband, finding her clit and touching it, wet and swollen and hot under her fingers.

She presses her lips together tight, struggling to stay quiet. All she can smell is Bill, even over the scent of her own arousal and she works three fingers in, thrusting shallowly as her thumb works on her clit. A rough breath breaks free and she forces herself to look at the door, to listen for Genevieve. She does it, her hand still moving, the back of it curved against the fabric that cups William’s dick, stretching it out, curved and taut.

“F-f-fuck,” she whispers, pushing her fingers in deeper. She takes the shirt in one hand, shoving the corner of it in her mouth, and that easily his taste is on her tongue and she’s coming, hard shocking jerks of her body. Her fingers are wet, his boxer-briefs are wet from her come. “Oh, f-fuck.” This time it’s a gasp as another spasm shoots through her and she has to ease her fingers away before it’s all too much.

She’s not sure how long she lies there, breathing shallow and slow, before she sits up. She spies herself in the mirror again, and the resemblance isn’t quite as strong, but she can see it. She unbuttons the shirt except for the last button then tugs it over her head, just like William does. She misses the hamper when she throws it, and doesn’t bother with her bra when she tugs her own shirt back on. She puts on her jeans over the boxer-briefs, not willing to take them off. She gathers her bra and panties and takes them to put in her overnight bag.

She’s slept in the guest room plenty of times, but tonight she lies on the couch, her heart still beating quickly as she watches some documentary on Japanese flying squid. She squeezes her legs together, feeling the warmth between them as she closes her eyes. She’ll wake up tomorrow and get Genevieve breakfast and hug Bill and Christine when they come home, and she’ll go back to her place and do it again.

If this is hell, she can live with it.  



End file.
